Cumin and Mead
by ECKon04
Summary: Faramir and his emotional agonies in the houses of healing. Small, cute oneshot.


Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Only the story.

A/N: I like making stupid little stories about Faramir and how he pines! So here it is, If you like it, I suggest you read my other one, and perhaps send a review. If you don't like it (for valid reasons) then by all means review! The poems by Robert Browning, it's only one of the three stanzas.

Apprecier!

* * *

You'll look at least on love's remains,  
A grave's one violet:  
Your look? - that pays a thousand pains  
What's death? You'll love me yet!

Faramir would have stopped pacing so frantically if somebody had just asked him to, but he was oblivious to the concern and curiosity of servants who were keeping busy in the building. Everyone heard it. The steady thumping of his boots on the carpeted floor of his bedroom, but his mind was going through so much unease that the tedious loudness of his footfalls didn't occur to him

At the moment he paid mind only to something that was shining and woeful and good. He was dwelling heatedly on a certain thing that had been said, and, trying to analyze its real meaning, put himself into quite an unrest.

He remembered the first time he turned his eyes to the object of his current obsession. All she did was stand there, and he forgot the better part of his wits for a moment just by glimpsing.

Faramir instantly knew that Eowyn was the loveliest thing he ever beheld. And he didn't see her recent bought of remorse as evidence of frailty, but saw something delicate in her instead. Something that he _knew_ only needed to be coddled for the length of time her grief lasted, and he wanted to be there when it was over. He remembered his manners, and remained perfectly cordial, and when she thanked him for granting her request for a room with a better view, he said in his smitten mind that he would give her anything else she asked.

She _had _asked to be let out of the houses of healing, but with much relief to the healers, he could not, (and secretly and selfishly _would not_) permit her to leave. To this he was very guilty, yet still very glad.

And as he looked at her regal profile against the overcast sky, and saw her utter despondency for the first time, something cracked inside his breast.

And to his current, preoccupied state, he still felt a peculiar leaking feeling from the same area. It streamed through his veins and prickled at his arms and legs. He was not a fool, and knew that this ailment was not physical, or didn't start that way.

"'I need rest,' she says!" He exclaimed to himself gruffly."'And I should like to see you fully rested tomorrow'!" He stopped in his tracks and ran his fingers through his hair, before spinning on his heal, and heaping onto his bed.

She had said this to him after their daily walk through the gardens. She had been telling him about a custom in Rohan, where on birthdays, the mead was sprinkled over the top with cumin powder. She said she didn't know why, or if there was any symbolism to it, but they did it anyway, just for the sake of tradition. Faramir had smiled at the thought of the solid spirit in those of Rohan, and figured he would not mind being connected to one of them, (if not a specific one), regardless of his father's spoken contempt against their rough and tumble lifestyle. He saw no justification in the prejudice.

He had then said to her how he loved her stories of her home.

And she had then said to him the source of his present anxiety

He figured, mostly to lower his hopes, that she had merely said this out of general friendly concern.

But he was_ sure _that something else was laced in her voice, that an extraordinary glint was hidden in her regard, and that a small token was trying to reveal itself by the way she lingered for an extra moment.

And with those speculations re-entering his thoughts, he let out a crackled whine that was definitely not fit for a steward of Gondor.

Taking a big breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, he kicked off his boots and rested a hand on his forehead.

_Eowyn, _he thought, turning her name over in his mind a couple of times. He let himself imagine feeling the softness of her hand, and the warmth of her cheek, as he did on more than one occasion, and took her wishes for his health as he drifted slowly and tediously to sleep.


End file.
